Still Right Here
by Moon Raven2
Summary: TV ep. title challenge - Bonus #7 "Doppelgangland." In an AU where JJ is a publicist, Rossi an author, and Reid a research scientist, can Reid find the courage to fight for JJ? Can Rossi set aside his own agenda and just be the shoulder she needs? Chap 6!
1. Hurt

**Still Right Here**

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**a/n**: This story was inspired by **Sienna27** and **Kavi**'s newest bonus challenge to write a completely AU story. I also used **Sienna**'s prompt-within-a-prompt idea of J.J. as a book publicist promoting Rossi's newest book. Rossi will make his appearance soon; this chapter is all J.J. and Reid. Thanks for the great inspiration!!

Working within the prompt, this story is 100% AU, but NOT the same AU as my stories "Endgame" and "Reckoning." I know, right?

In completely personal news, it's really nice to write a serious story using these characters that doesn't involve murder and mayhem. :D

Please review me if you like what you read here; I'll need the encouragement to keep going!! Thanks. :D

**Disclaimer: **Criminal Minds and associated characters aren't mine, not one little bit. Thanks to Jeff Davis et al. for creating them and letting me play!

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**Chapter 1: Hurt**

**Prompt: **_Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ - "Doppelgangland"

**What have I become,  
My sweetest friend?  
Everyone I know  
Goes away in the end.  
And you could have it all;  
My empire of dirt.  
I will let you down;  
I will make you hurt.**  
-Trent Reznor, "Hurt"

**September 2009**

Perhaps the most difficult thing - the most _challenging_ thing - Dr. Spencer Reid had encountered in this life was living up to other people's expectations of him. _Other people_? Who was he kidding? The only person whose expectations mattered was currently throwing clothes into a suitcase as fast as she could. He'd let her down, of course, just as he had known he would. Was it merely a self-fulfilling prophecy, or was he truly incapable of loving someone?

He watched her through dull hazel eyes. With every blouse or skirt or pair of panties she shoved into the bag he felt a little more of his soul shrivel up. Soon he'd be all dried out, a shell of a man, and he'd blow away on the wind of her anger like tumbleweed. He watched her, knowing she wanted him to speak, but he remained silent, any words he might have said evaporating before they formed.

Abruptly she turned toward him, frustration writ large on her lovely, perfect face. "I just can't do this anymore," she managed through choking anger.

"You said that," he replied quietly.

She whirled away again in a swirl of sunshine hair. She was finished with her clothes, and now she began packing toiletries - shampoo, perfume, lotion - all those wonderful, mysterious potions that made her smell like heaven. She held a small bottle in her hand, a scent he'd bought her for her last birthday, and looked up at him with pleading in her dark blue eyes. "Ask me to stay, Spence. Please."

He held up his hands, a broken, confused man out of his depth. "What if I did? Would it make a difference? You'd still go."

She looked down at the pretty bottle; curled her fingers around it and squeezed. "Yes," she whispered. "I'd still go."

"Ok, then. What is there for me to say? I love you. That isn't enough."

She turned her face away, mouth forming a tense, set line. "It was, once."

"So what happened, Jen?" he asked, rising from the bed and moving toward her, hands outstretched. "I know I work a lot. I know I'm not always there when you need me. But what happened? Can't we go back?"

She flinched away before he could touch her, and he let his arms fall back to his sides, useless, numb. "I work a lot, too. You know that's not it. I'd never punish you for your success."

It was true. They'd both known it wouldn't be an easy road, but always before they'd struck a balance between demanding careers - his as a respected research scientist, and hers as a successful book publicist - and their personal lives. Somehow it had all gone wrong. Somehow the beautiful, glittering house of cards they'd built was now crashing around them. Spencer eyed her, knowing what was coming, hoping he was wrong.

"This isn't about your career or mine, Spence. It's about..." She trailed off, and her chin fell to her chest. "It wasn't a small thing," she breathed.

A spasm of pain contorted his finely made features. "I know that, Jen. He was my son, too."

"Then _why_?!" she cried, anger and hurt exploding from her like a physical force. "Where did you go? We were both mourning, both hurting. Why couldn't we be there for each other?"

What was there to say? When she'd told him she was pregnant, he'd nearly panicked. He couldn't fathom the idea of being a father. His mother was schizophrenic; he'd grown up a total freak. He'd always assumed he wouldn't have children; he didn't want to pass such a legacy on. It seemed unfair, cruel, and though he could sometimes come across cold, Spencer Reid was never cruel.

As the weeks passed, though, the idea had grown on him. They'd seen the baby's (_Henry's_) heartbeat; they'd learned it was a boy (_our_ _boy_); they'd begun decorating the nursery. He'd watched the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the baby (_Henry_). He'd felt his own heart swell as he bought a little telescope; a kid's book of poetry; a baby's classical music CD. He'd even enjoyed her fond laughter at these gifts, grinned at her teasing - _what, no baseball glove?_

The accident had brought him back to reality faster than a slap in the face. It _was_ a slap in the face. He remembered the phone call; the rush from his lab to the hospital; the sight of her still, small, pale form lying in that white, sterile bed. The doctor's hushed voice as he'd informed him that his wife (_she's not my wife; I'm the asshole who won't marry her..._) was going to be fine, but the baby (_Henry!_) hadn't been so lucky.

It had been nearly six months. The nursery remained unchanged. The gifts he'd bought still occupied the silent, cheerfully-decorated room. Slowly, inexorably, they drifted. He woke in the night to find her side of the bed cold, empty, but rather than going to find her - in the nursery, he knew, staring into that vacant little crib - he turned over and went back to sleep. They stopped looking at each other. It was easier to let eyes slide past, avoiding contact, avoiding the conversation they both wanted to have but couldn't.

She blamed him. Not for the accident, of course; it was just that: a stupid, random accident. She blamed him for the slide. She blamed him for retreating into himself as he so often did when the world around him became too hard. "I wanted to, Jen," he said at last. "I couldn't."

Her lovely face crumpled. She gave the little vial in her hand one last look before she set it on the dresser. She picked up her suitcase and turned to go. "I guess I couldn't either, Spence," she told him over her shoulder. "That says it all, doesn't it?"

He watched her walk out. He didn't call her back. He felt his heart stutter, stop. He only had himself to blame.

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_I'm sure most of you will recognize Johnny Cash's cover of the song "Hurt" as being used in the ep "Elephant's Memory." I love both versions: the original NIN, and Johnny Cash's remake; and I felt like it really fit this chapter. The story title comes from that song, also.  
_

_Ironically, I was watching _Homicide_ only a few days after "Elephant's Memory" was on A&E, and they used the original version in an ep. There's a reason I love _both_ shows. ;)_

_For those of you enjoying "Reckoning," I'm still working on it. It's hit a bit of a speed bump atm, but I'll have new (previously written) chapters this weekend.  
_

_Please drop me a review or two, dear readers. This idea has sort've taken me by storm, and I'm publishing with **nothing** written, so I'd love some inspiration! Thanks for reading.  
_


	2. Reflections and Advice

**a/n:** Thanks to **kenzmom** and **missiemeghan** for the reviews! They're much appreciated. :)

Um...yeah...this story isn't exactly going the direction I initially wanted it to go, but sometimes the lowly writer just has to strap herself in and let the story go where it wants. If you're enjoying the ride, please let me know with a review. :) They help keep me focused.

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**Chapter 2: Reflections and Advice**

**Confusion wanders in,  
Strides the evening like a king;  
Chaos and turmoil prevail;  
Bedlam reigns, hope all is drowned.  
Ah, but strangely we settle down,  
Resigned to the sinking ship on which we sail**.  
-David Gray, "It's All Over"

David Rossi was sixty-two years old. He had had ten books on the _New York Times_ bestseller list. He had been married three times. He had a daughter from his first marriage, but she rarely had time for him. He lived in his multi-million dollar Dakota penthouse alone. Despite his many successes, he felt like a failure.

It was a cliché, he knew, and that was why he resisted dwelling on it. Mostly. As he stood on his terrace looking out over Central Park, he tried to focus on the good. He was aging well. Sure, he missed being twenty-five, but there was plenty to be said for maturity. Lots of women liked a man of experience.

Though, if he were being completely honest, he grew weary of giggling twenty-somethings with daddy issues. Or sugar daddy issues. He wanted someone...thoughtful. Worldly. If he wanted anyone at all, and most days that was up for serious debate.

His musings were interrupted by a buzz on the intercom. He ignored it. It buzzed again, more insistently, until the annoying noise abruptly stopped. He nodded in satisfaction: intruder successfully dispatched.

He was debating the merits of changing out of his pajamas and into real clothes (_why bother? Heff lives in PJs, and look at what he's got..._) when the knocking began. Dammit, one of his nosy-ass neighbors must have let the buzzer(_er?_) up. Of course, it took a key in the elevator to get to this floor, so that narrowed the visitor list considerably.

"Dave?" a female voice called from the living room.

Not only a key to his floor, but a front door key as well. Only two women had such a key: his housekeeper and his publicist. He checked the sun's position in the sky (watches were deeply overrated) and realized it was nearly noon. Of course, they had an appointment that day...he'd forgotten it, lost as he was in his brooding.

"Dave, if you're dead I'm going to be really pissed. Discovering your body is really, really low on my list of things I've always wanted to do."

He smiled in spite of himself, the hangdog look lifting from his face. "I'm out here, J.J.," he called.

His indecently attractive, insanely competent, incredibly annoying (_"tenacious," Dave, let's be fair_) publicist appeared in the doorway, Prada briefcase dangling from one small, perfectly manicured hand. Those hands were currently on her hips, and her lovely face was creased in a little scowl. "You missed our appointment."

"Good morning to you, too," he offered, turning back to the view after his initial assessment.

"Good morning? Are you kidding? It's never a good morning when I have to come drag you out of here. Why do you insist on going all J.D. Salinger on me?"

"Ironic."

"What?" she asked, moving out onto the terrace and eying him warily. One never knew what he'd come up with when he was in one of these moods.

"J.D. Salinger. _Catcher in the Rye_. Holden Caulfield. Mark David Chapman. John Lennon." He pointed at the sidewalk far below them. "The Dakota."

"Dave, Jesus. All I meant was you're going hermit again. There's no need to play Six Degrees of Incredibly Morbid with me."

He shrugged. "You brought it up."

She sighed in exasperation and tried to reign in her temper.

He eyed her. "I was going more for Hugh Heffner than J.D. Salinger. Like the PJs?"

"I'd like them more if you didn't have a book signing in SoHo in twenty minutes. We'll never make it on time."

Sighing, he turned his dark-eyed gaze on the view once more. "I'm tired, J.J."

"I told you to stop staying up all night. This tour's going to be tough, and you need—"

"I don't mean physically," he interrupted. "I'm tired of...this." He waved a hand. "World-weary." He gave her a long look, really examining her for the first time since she'd stepped through the door. His brows drew together. "You look worse than I do."

"Um...thanks, Dave. I'm glad we have the type of relationship where we can just say whatever we think." She shook her bright head and leaned beside him against the stone railing.

"That was a bit...abrupt," he admitted. Her normally bright eyes looked dull, almost defeated, and her face was set in tired lines. He'd never seen her without the spark he so admired. "What's wrong?" he asked, pulling himself away from his self-pity for a moment.

She looked away self-consciously. "Nothing. I'm fine, Dave. It's you I'm worried about. You have the book signing, and then tonight you're speaking at NYU. Are you going to be able to do it, or do I need to figure out an excuse for canceling?"

"Is it that kid you're seeing? Did he do something?"

Her fingers drummed against the stone. "He has a name, Dave."

"Sure. Everyone has a name. I just don't care about his."

Her mouth quirked. "You're an arrogant jerk, you know that?"

He grinned, the expression brightening his eyes. "I take pride in it. So I guess you want me at that store in SoHo, huh?"

"Yes, Dave. It would make my job much, much easier if you would get some clothes on and go to the signing. I know I'm not your agent, or your editor, or one of your ex-wives, but it would be really great if you could do your lowly publicist this one tiny favor."

"You didn't answer my question, though."

She rubbed her temples a moment, struggling with her emotions. She knew he wouldn't give up until she answered him. She could make something up, but he'd probably see right through it; he was damn perceptive when he managed to think about someone other than himself for five minutes. "I left him last night," she said at last.

His brows rose. "Any particular reason why?"

She let out a breath somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Millions. He shuts me out. He won't talk to me. He buries himself in his work when I need him the most."

"Those are pretty common things, J.J.," said the man who had built commercial success as his personal life went to hell. "What actually motivated you to walk out that door last night?"

She stared out at the green vista of the park, and the city beyond. "He wanted to redecorate the nursery," she said softly.

Dave blinked. It wasn't what he'd been expecting. "It's been six months," he reminded her gently.

"I know that!" she cried, her face as she turned toward him a mask of pain. "I know how long it's been nearly down to the minute. Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers what day it was."

He frowned. Considered. Thought about his own daughter whom he so rarely saw. "I think you're being unfair. Deeply unfair."

"Unfair to _him_?! What about what's fair to _me_?"

He held up a placating hand. "You say he won't talk to you, but have you tried talking to him? Did you tell him why you weren't ready to redecorate, or did you just get angry and start packing?"

Her jaw fell open. Snapped shut again. Blue eyes showed a range of emotions - fury, hurt...guilt. "I..." She turned away, leaving the single syllable to hang in the air like smoke.

"That's what I thought," he said quietly. He sighed. "You know I like you, J.J."

"You don't like anyone, Dave," she reminded him.

"That makes it even more remarkable that I like you. I've always liked you, but I never really liked that kid."

"You only met him once, and he had the flu. You can't really judge him based on that," she replied in exasperation.

"I reserve the right to judge anyone in any circumstances," he said after brief consideration.

She rolled her eyes; shook her head.

"That aside," he continued, "I think you didn't really give him a chance. If you'll accept an outsider's opinion, I think you shut him out from the moment you lost the baby. He didn't stand a snowball's chance."

J.J. lifted her hands in a rueful almost-shrug. "It's too late. I'm tired of fighting for him."

"Maybe it's time he fought for you," he told her in a quiet, firm voice.

She looked away. "He won't. He gave up a long time ago."

Dave reached out to squeeze her small hand in his larger one. "At the risk of sounding utterly ridiculous, I'm going to tell you not to underestimate the power of the heart. If he doesn't fight for you, he's an idiot; I don't care how high his IQ is. You're worth fighting for; don't ever forget that."

She glanced at him quickly, watching him go blurry as tears filled her dark blue eyes. "Thank you, Dave. I mean it."

He smiled; patted her hand before releasing it. "Any time, kiddo. Now, how about you call that store and tell them we're on our way?"

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_I don't know what's going to happen. Honestly, I don't. Review me if you're interested in finding out with me. :D_


	3. A Beacon

**a/n:** Finally a bit from J.J.'s pov in this chapter! I've had this written for a few days, but I've been too busy to get it uploaded.

Enjoy! Please drop me a review if you stopped by. :)

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**Chapter 3: A Beacon**

**The perfect words never crossed my mind  
'Cos there was nothing in there but you.  
I felt every ounce of me screaming out,  
But the sound was trapped deep in me.**  
-Snow Patrol, "Signal Fire"

**November 2009**

The book tour was as exhausting as she d promised: over forty cities in two months, readings and signings at book stores, lectures at colleges, and one stop at _The Colbert Report_ to put serial killers "On Notice." It hadn't been strictly necessary for J.J. to accompany him, but he'd invited, and since he was her biggest client, she'd accepted. It helped to get away from the city and experience a bit of the outside world.

It was healing to get away. Cathartic. The work kept her mind off of...things. Off of Spence. Off of the baby. Now when she woke, she didn't have to take a moment to remind herself that the baby was gone, she was no longer pregnant, the crib sat empty. She'd moved out of the large apartment she and Spence had shared, and she no longer had access to the pretty little nursery they'd created together. She couldn't wander down the hall in the middle of the night and dwell on all that she'd lost.

Maybe Spence had been right after all. Maybe it had been time to redecorate. She was sure he'd done it by now, painting over the sylvan scene they'd created on the walls, the midsummer night's sky on the ceiling. The thought gave her a pang, a moment's mourning for the promise that nursery represented - the promise of their son, their family, their happiness together.

There was one stop left on Dave's tour, and it was the one event she was dreading; the one event she was seriously considering skipping. But Dave would notice her absence, and he would...what? Understand, probably. Understand, but be disappointed in her. Since when had David Rossi's opinion become so damn important?

She sighed and ran the brush through her corn silk hair one last time. She checked her makeup in the mirror. Smoothed her skirt; considered changing _again_. She shook her head, feeling ridiculous. Spence probably wouldn't even be there...

That was foolish. Of course he'd be there. He was a huge fan of Dave's, even if Dave hadn't liked the young scientist the one time they'd met. There's no way Spencer Reid would pass up a chance at hearing one of his favorite authors lecturing at his own school.

But maybe, just maybe, he'd stay away because he knew J.J. was coming. She always attended her clients' events in the city, especially Dave's. Spence might stay away because he didn't want to see her, didn't want to have that awkward post-breakup chat. She hated that necessarily banal, forcibly cheerful little talk.

The thought of Spence avoiding her gave her a strange, hollow feeling. As much as part of her didn't want to see him (could barely stand the thought), another, larger part _longed_ to see him. She wanted to know how he was doing; she wanted to know how he looked; she wanted to know everything he'd been doing in the last two months to get his mind off her as she had struggled to get her mind off him.

"Enough, J.J.," she told her reflection. "See him or not, it hardly matters." She had walked out on him, and she'd meant everything she'd said. Though she missed him (almost desperately at times), intellectually she knew nothing had changed. Spence hadn't changed; she hadn't changed. She shook her head, grabbed her purse and keys, and headed out the door.

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He considered staying away. Part of him - the cowardly part, he admitted - wanted to stay away. But the larger, more honest part knew he would go. Knew he had no choice, really. David Rossi, despite being an arrogant jerk (at least the one time they'd met), was still one of his favorite writers.

He was also Jen's number one client.

Hence Spencer's urge to stay sequestered in the sterile safety of his lab.

But wasn't that exactly the problem? He cut himself off because it was safer, easier. Maybe if she saw him there, realized what a risk he was taking...

What would she do? Come running back? That was just ridiculous. She'd made herself abundantly clear the night she walked out. It was over, period. He'd blown it, and now he had to live with the knowledge of everything he'd...not lost. Thrown away. Destroyed. _Let die_.

Now he stood in the back of the crowded lecture hall and searched for her bright beacon of hair. His hope in the darkness. Maybe if he'd just told her that, she would've stayed...

He should have told her quite a few things.

The reading and subsequent talk ended to a roar of applause, the sound bringing Spencer back to the here and now. David Rossi - gracious, distinguished, handsome - smiled and nodded, the very picture of the humble artist embarrassed by the crowd's adoration. The audience was invited to the book signing and reception, and everyone began filing out the doors.

Spencer stayed rooted. Jen wasn't on the stage, so she had to pass him to reach the lobby. The hall was nearly empty, and he was beginning to lose hope when he saw her. He felt a band wrap around his chest, squeezing, constricting. He couldn't breathe. The sight of her was like a punch in the gut. No, wait, like a band...shit, he was mixing his damn metaphors now. The woman made him mix metaphors.

He rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the slight scrape of stubble. What had he been thinking? He was clearly in no shape to see her. If he left now he could escape with the last remnants of the audience, and she would never even know he'd been there. Hazel eyes burning, he watched her as she moved down the aisle, realizing suddenly that the light glinting off her earlobes was being reflected by the sapphire earrings he had bought her. Had she done that on purpose?

He was still debating the exit when her dark blue gaze caught, stayed, on his. He swallowed, feeling his mouth go bone dry as her face clouded, cleared, smoothed. He knew that face, the mask she wore. He'd seen it countless times when she had to deal with a particularly tough client: it was her game face.

She approached him steadily, her eyes never leaving his. He slid slender, long-fingered hands into his pockets.

"Spence," she said, "you came." Her tone was polite, even - like he was a stranger.

It gave him pause. "Um. Of course I came. You know I enjoy Dave's writing." Inwardly he rolled his eyes at the sheer banality of it.

Her mouth curved into an engaging smile. "Of course," she agreed genially. "It's good to see you. You're looking well."

His brows quirked at her. He looked like shit and he knew it. "Thanks," he replied mildly. "You look amazing," he told her truthfully. "I especially love the earrings."

Dark blue eyes the same shade as the sapphires widened. Finally he'd cracked her perfect composure. "I, um. They're still good luck."

"I'm glad."

They stared at each other for several long heartbeats. He rocked back on his heels a little. She fidgeted with her watchband.

"I can't do this again," she finally whispered, surprising him.

He leaned toward her, deep-set hazel eyes intent on her lovely face. "I'm not asking you to," he replied, forehead crinkling as his brows came together.

"You shouldn't have come."

"I had no choice."

"I hate you." It was said without venom, as though she were merely stating a fact. He didn't believe her. Anger he would have accepted, but this dry, impersonal tone...no, that wasn't his Jennifer.

"I love you," he told her simply.

"Don't lie to me."

"I've never lied to you. I've always loved you." It wasn't perfect. It wasn't an apology. It was far less than she deserved.

It was all he had.

She looked away. Back. "Spence, I'm sorry. I should go."

"Just think about it, Jen."

"I'm sorry, Spence," she repeated softly before she turned in a whirl of golden hair and elusive, tantalizing scent.

He watched her go.

And he wondered.

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_This story is a little all over the place atm. I have my idea for the next chapter, but I can't seem to get it down on paper...so to speak._

_Let me know if you're enjoying, dear readers!  
_


	4. Before

**a/n:** Thank you for the kind and wonderful reviews! They make me do a happy dance. :)

This chapter is obviously entirely flashback, and I've provided dates for your reading convenience. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 4: Before**

**It reminds me of the feeling where  
I first looked into your eyes:  
Saw the most beautiful birds  
Fly straight into the sun  
With their wings on fire,  
And the deed was done.**  
-Bob Schneider, "Changing My Mind"

**August 2007**

Dr. Spencer Reid rarely left the safety of his Columbia University lab. He would live there if he could. His excuse was the importance of his work - they were doing very exciting things with using stem cells to treat mental illnesses, including schizophrenia - but he knew, as important as his work was, it was just an excuse.

In his lab it was quiet. He was alone except for rotating lab assistants and grad students, and they all knew his penchant for solitude and let him be. In his lab he could concentrate on tests and slides and Petri dishes. He didn't have to worry about whether his shoes matched his belt (he preferred sneakers anyway) or if his tendency to spout statistics in lieu of real conversation was boring someone.

But tonight he found himself away from the lab. David Rossi, one of Spencer's favorite fiction authors, was speaking at Columbia. He was doing a reading from his latest book with a lecture and book signing to follow. So it was that Spencer clutched his hardback copy of _Lessons Learned_ and made the trek from his safe, comfortable lab to the buzzing, crowded lecture hall with a mixture of excitement and trepidation filling him.

He was quite early, and it didn't take him long to find a good seat. The stage was set with a chair; a small table holding a bottle of water and the book; and a mic stand. Spencer hadn't been seated long when a beautiful blond, maybe a year or two older than the young scientist, strode across the stage to check the table. She opened the water and pocketed the cap. A small frown created a crease between delicately drawn brows. She flipped open the book and marked a place. Her hair was like sunshine and silk, and Spencer found himself imagining that she smelled of fresh air and wildflowers.

He couldn't take his eyes off her slim figure, her graceful, businesslike movements. It seemed as though all the air had been sucked from the room, and all the noise and busyness had disappeared. Spencer Reid, boy genius, was spellbound.

* * *

**October 2007**

"Why don't you call me 'J.J.'?" she asked him as they sat down to dinner at Bubby's, a spot they'd quickly discovered they both loved.

His face scrunched. "I like your name. Did you know 'Jennifer' is the Cornish version of the name 'Guenevere'? Though, actually, 'Guenevere' is just the Norman French version of the Welsh 'Gwynhevar'."

"Really. Didn't she cheat on her husband with Sir Lancelot?"

He smiled, his hazel eyes lighting endearingly. "In later versions of the myth, mostly those created post-Christianity. In the earlier versions, she was a queen in her own right, and Arthur only attained his kingship through their marriage. She was worshipped as a symbol of fertility."

A fine brow rose. "Fertility, hmm? Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

He looked down; fiddled with his fork; blushed. "I just meant..." He looked up at her, meeting her dark blue gaze with shy hesitation. "Your name is beautiful, Jennifer. Like you."

Now it was her turn to blush. Spencer Reid was an odd character; quite a departure from the men she usually dated. She had been called beautiful before, in a variety of ways by a variety of men, but somehow coming from him it seemed...different. More sincere. She watched him across the table, enjoying the way he fidgeted, the way he looked so serious and intent. When he smiled it transformed his pensive face, and she delighted in the brightness it lent his finely-drawn features.

The silence was stretching, on the verge of becoming uncomfortable. J.J. cleared her throat; her lips lifted at the corners. "Thank you, Spence. That's sweet."

His mouth quirked. "No one's ever called me 'Spence' before."

"I'm glad I could be the first," she told him quietly.

"Me too," he murmured.

* * *

**January 2008**

"What's this?" he asked as she handed him the small, brightly wrapped package.

"A birthday present, silly; what does it look like? Open it." Her dark blue eyes were dancing with glee, and her lovely face was illuminated by a smile she was trying to fight.

He stared at the little box in consternation. "Jen, you didn't have to—"

"Don't be absurd. Of course I did. Now are you going to open it or stare at it? Can I start listing x-ray vision among your many attributes when I brag to my friends about you?"

He blinked at her. "You brag about me?"

Her laugh was like sugar, and it poured over him in a sweet, sparkling rain. "Of course I do! You're successful, literally a genius, and absolutely adorable. What woman wouldn't brag?"

Momentarily overcome, he just gaped at her. The only woman who'd ever bragged about him was his mother. He set the box on a nearby table with all the care and gentleness of a man handling a newborn baby and reached for her. His elegant, long-fingered hands captured her face, and he stared intently into the sea of her eyes.

"Spence, what is it?" she asked, concerned by his expression.

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said quietly before his lips met hers for several long, intense heartbeats. He pulled away, grinning, and grabbed the box again. "Any hints?" he asked her.

A little breathless from the heat of his kiss, she merely shook her head. "Just open it," she laughed.

He carefully removed the paper and slid the lid off. Inside were two tickets. For a moment he thought they might be for some sporting event, but then he read the printing more carefully. "A Stephen Hawking lecture?!" he cried. "Jen, you know how I feel about Hawking's _A Brief History of Time_. He completely—"

She held up a hand. "I know, Spence. That's why I bought them. Now you can debate the issue with the man himself. His publisher is a client of mine; you're going to have a chance to meet Stephen Hawking."

"You...meet...what?" he stuttered, at a total loss for coherent words.

"You're welcome," she replied, grinning brilliantly.

Awed, he glanced from the woman to the tickets and back again. "Jen," he breathed, "I really do love you."

The words stopped her heart. She reached out, ran her fingers through his short curls. "Mean it?" She tried to keep her tone light, but she was sure he heard the tremor in her voice.

His eyes went soft, and his mouth curled into one of those brilliant smiles she adored. "I do," he said simply.

* * *

**September 2008**

She stared down at the read-out on the little stick in utter disbelief. They'd always been safe. She'd skipped her Pill maybe...twice...the entire time they'd been together, and they'd always used backup. Spence had told her once he was unsure he ever wanted kids; between his mother's schizophrenia and his own borderline autism, he felt like, genetically, he would be playing Russian roulette bringing a child into the world.

As for J.J., she was simply too busy. Her career was taking off. She'd recently landed a huge promotion at work, and now she had more high-profile clients than ever. She didn't have time for morning sickness or swollen ankles or...dirty diapers. She definitely didn't have time for maternity leave. A baby wasn't something she was looking for at the moment. It wasn't something she _wanted_.

She looked up at her own shell-shocked reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that stared back at her was practically unrecognizable. Dark circles surrounded her blue eyes. Her skin was sallow, her lips cracked. She looked like a crazy woman.

And what she'd thought was the flu had turned out to be much more serious.

She pressed a small hand to her still-flat belly. "Oh, baby," she whispered, "what the hell is your daddy gonna say about this?"

* * *

**January 2009 **

She sniffled; wiped her eyes; blew her nose. Damn hormones. She cried at the drop of a hat these days. Feeling annoyed with herself, she threw page six aside with a frustrated huff. Normally the wedding announcements were something she enjoyed, but lately...

It wasn't that she was dying to get married. Just the opposite. She was happy with the relationship she and Spence had. They were both excited about the baby. Though he'd been unsure at first, Spence had recently started buying adorable little presents; they'd decorated the nursery; picked out a name. They didn't need to get married, no matter what her mother said.

Exasperated, tired of hearing her mother's voice in her head, J.J. drummed her fingertips against the desktop. Popped two Tums to combat post-lunch, baby-induced heartburn. Rose to pace her carefully appointed office with its dazzling view of the city. She was on the verge of going stir crazy when a timely buzz on the intercom saved her.

"Yes, Candice?" she asked, trying to mask the relief in her voice.

"David Rossi is here to see you, J.J.," the assistant said. "He doesn't have an appointment."

"Send him in," she instructed. "And bring some coffee, please."

"Already brewing. You're having herbal tea."

J.J. ground her teeth. "Yes, ma'am," she replied in a voice laced heavily with irony. She clicked the intercom off just as David Rossi burst into her office without knocking.

"I'm having an existential crisis, J.J. Writer's block is destroying me, and I need to talk it through," he declared melodramatically.

She restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "Writer's block is hardly an existential crisis, Dave. Don't you have an editor to help you with these things?"

He eyed her. "My editor bores me," he replied loftily. He couldn't help but notice the red splotches on her pale face, or how swollen her eyes were. "What's wrong, J.J.?"

"Um. I'm busy and you don't have an appointment?"

He waved that away. "Since when do I need an appointment? I'm serious; you've been crying."

"You didn't knock, Dave. We've talked about that."

He turned to the door with an expression of utter incomprehension, as though he were just now noticing its existence. He blinked, but then captured her with his piercing gaze once more. "You're avoiding the question. We can do this all day; you have someplace to be, but I don't."

Her face creased in a frown. He wouldn't let it go, she knew, so with a resigned sigh she tried to come up with the right words. "I feel...lost," she decided at last.

"About the baby?"

She hesitated, considered. "Yes. No. I don't know. Dave, do you think I'll make a good mother?" It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but the words left her in a rush before she could stop them.

"Yes," he replied simply. "You'll be amazing." He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. "J.J., listen. What you're feeling is perfectly natural. My ex was the same way; she worried constantly. She must've called her mother twenty times a day."

"Really?" she asked, a glimmer of hope dawning in her stormy eyes. "I thought I was being completely neurotic."

"You are, but it's natural neurosis."

"That's not funny," she replied crossly.

"It is, a little."

"Hhmm."

The silence began easily enough, but as moments passed it grew watchful, tense. She gradually became aware of the warmth of his hands seeping through her blouse and into her skin. The air seemed charged, like static. She looked up into his intense dark eyes, but before she could form a coherent thought, his mouth was on hers.

His lips were confident, firm, but not demanding; surprisingly soft and gentle. He raised a hand to cup her cheek, and she instinctively leaned into his touch. She felt an electric current hum over her skin, and in some dim, clouded part of her mind she realized _this_ was how he landed three wives despite his womanizing reputation.

They never knew how far things might have gone, because just as the kiss became deeper, darker, more intense, a knock on the door shattered the moment. J.J. pulled away, horror and shame flooding her in equal, scalding measures. "Oh God," she whispered, pressing a small hand against his chest to ward him off.

He felt suddenly clumsy, like an idiot kid on his first date. "J.J., I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Don't, Dave. Please. Let's just forget about it. It was a foolish mistake." She hesitated, unsure. "I should go," she managed. "I need to pick up Spence; we're going away for the weekend. I hope you work through your writer's block." She grabbed her purse and coat and hurried from the office, blowing past her surprised assistant without a word.

Once in the safety of her car, she pressed shaking hands against her face and tried to think about Spence, only Spence. She loved him. They were having a baby. He made her happy. She'd been feeling vulnerable, hormonal, and upset; one kiss meant nothing. Just a mistake, like she'd said.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, J.J. carefully backed her car out of the parking spot. She saw the truck before she turned out onto the street, but neither she nor the other driver saw the slick, deadly sheet of black ice coating the road between them. The truck hit it, slid, and J.J. watched in slow-motion terror as the lumbering, heavy vehicle careened toward her car.

* * *

_I've suddenly opened the floodgates on this one. Maybe now that "Reckoning" is done I actually have leftover brain capacity for something else. :)_

_Let me know how you're enjoying it with a review, kind readers!  
_


	5. After

**a/n:** Special thanks go out to **chiroho** for his thoughtful, insightful review. It helped me get back on this story; I had this chapter half-written, and I finally finished it off and began the next one.

I've gotten a few, um, whatcha callit... story update subscription thingies, and while I like those very much, I'd love to hear _why_ you care enough to follow the story. :)

Thanks for reading! Look out for major angst ahead...

* * *

**Chapter 5: After**

**What's so funny is I'm scared and lonely,  
And I don't think that I'm the only one  
As I watch you drive away.**

**And what's so funny is the birds are singing,  
Sun is shining,  
And the bells are ringing,  
And I'm thinking,  
What happened here?**  
-Bob Schneider, "Changing My Mind"

**January 2009 **

Spencer came to the hospital every day. He sat by her bed, keeping constant, attentive vigil. He seldom spoke. She mostly slept. But his intense hazel eyes rarely left her pale, bruised face. When they did it was to watch the rise and fall of her chest. To assure himself she still lived, even as he mourned knowing their baby didn't. He longed to touch her, to brush her hair back from her forehead, to hold her hand. But fear held him frozen; his hands remained by his sides and his lips remained sealed.

Dave came nearly every day, too. He waited until Spencer had gone before taking up his post beside the bed. Unlike the young scientist, Dave spoke constantly; told her about his latest book; offered amusing anecdotes about his ex-wives. Mostly, though, he read to her. He started with _Little Women_, her childhood favorite. He moved on to _American Gods_, a book that delighted them both. He did the voices with relish, especially that of Mad Sweeney the leprechaun.

His rendition of Mad Sweeney's wake nearly made her laugh aloud. Nearly. Laughter wasn't a language she knew anymore.

Near the end, as gods old and new began gathering at Rock City, he abruptly stopped reading, closing the book over a finger he used to mark their place. He sat in silence; watched her face. She turned away from him, unable to bear his concerned scrutiny.

"J.J.," he began softly, but she waved a hand to hush him.

"Just keep reading, Dave," she pleaded in a whisper. "Please just keep reading."

* * *

**March 2009 **

Something had awoken him, but he couldn't figure out what. Instinctively he slid a hand across the bed, reaching for Jen's warm softness, but her side was empty. Cold. Frowning, he rose from the tangle of blankets and padded down the hall. He knew where she was, and it worried him.

A faint light glowed from the tiny room; he nudged the door open. Watched her for several heartbeats. She sat in the rocker, sea-storm eyes locked on the empty crib. The scene around her was ideal, surreal in context. They had painted a sylvan wonderland on the walls, complete with huge, hoary trees, peeking animals, faeries and toadstools. The ceiling was a perfect map of the night sky over New York in mid-June, the baby's due date.

He cleared his throat, but she didn't look up. "Jen," he murmured.

"Go back to bed, Spence," she told him softly.

His face scrunched, brows drawing together and mouth twisting. "Come with me, Jen. It's not good for you to just sit in here like this."

"I'm fine."

"I, uh...really? You don't look...fine." He didn't mean physically; tragedy and pain had, if anything, made her even more beautiful. It had refined her, distilled her loveliness into its purest form. She had been a pretty young woman, a sexy mother-to-be, and now she was an exquisite mourner. It pierced his heart, and the wound was a bittersweet ache.

She turned to him at last, looking up at him with pain-dulled eyes. "I don't want to forget him," she breathed, her voice tiny and tragic.

"What? Jen..." He knelt beside her; bowed his head into her lap. "That could never happen, Jen," he whispered into her thighs. "Of course we'll never forget him. But you can't..._stop_. You have to keep going."

She dropped a gentle hand down onto his sleep-mussed hair. Stroked along the curve of his skull, down the back of his neck. She could feel the knobs of his spine beneath incongruously soft skin. She remembered tangling her fingers in the curls at the base of his neck when they kissed, made love. It seemed like so long ago, another lifetime. "Will we ever be ok again?" she asked bleakly.

"Yes." He raised his head to meet her clouded gaze. "I think so."

Though she wasn't as sure as he, she allowed herself to be comforted, however briefly.

* * *

**June 2009 **

It was late. She didn't bother checking the clock; she knew whatever it read didn't matter. It was late, and dark, and despite the season, cold. Some part of her recognized that the cold wasn't physical; it went too deep for that. It sliced too keenly; abraded too harshly. She wrapped the robe around her thin body (she'd lost weight since the accident; she was practically skin and bones now) and shivered.

Spence slept on, oblivious. She crept from their bed and down the hall. The nursery beckoned. She stared into the empty little crib and imagined life without the accident.

It was nearly the baby's due date. She would be on maternity leave, rather than the bereavement leave they'd practically forced on her. Her belly would be huge, round, ripe. The nursery would be full of shower gifts; Candice had already started planning one before the accident; there would have been several others, she knew.

Maybe Spence was right; maybe she _was_ out of control. Surely it wasn't healthy to obsess over an empty little room like this. Surely by now she should have moved on. Except...what was the protocol for losing a child? Was there a statute of limitations on such mourning? And was it supposed to be easier because you never actually got to hold said child? Because you never changed his diapers or fed him or smelled his sweet baby scent? Was it somehow supposed to be _easier_ to go from being filled with a little life to being...hollow? A husk, emptied.

She sank down in the rocker. Stared up at the painted sky. Every constellation spelled her lost son's name; every star resembled his beloved, unknown face. She knew something had to change, and soon, or she would lose herself completely. Slowly, excruciatingly, she mentally began to pick up the scattered pieces of her former life. She was well aware they all wouldn't fit into the new puzzle she was creating.

Down the hall, Spencer sat up in bed, head cradled in his hands. He was losing her, and he had no idea how to stop the slide. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stay afloat in the storm-tossed sea of their silent, shared pain.

* * *

**September 2009 **

Summer was almost over. Soon the leaves would be changing; the chill would return to the air. He brought her mums, one of her favorite flowers, and reminded her how much they loved New York in autumn. She smiled at him, a little, and even that wavering expression lifted his heart.

She returned to work, and she seemed to be thriving there. Despite her lengthy absence, nearly all of her old clients returned, grateful to have her back.

They started going out again. Lectures, gallery openings, the occasional dinner. Nothing too taxing or strenuous, but _something_. He felt hope, that fragile, winged little creature, stirring in his bruised and battered heart. Maybe they had come through it. Maybe they would be ok after all.

He tried not to notice the way she rarely met his eyes anymore. The way she seemed to be spending so many extra hours at the office. He threw himself into his work, ignoring the signs that were written in huge, flashing neon letters right under his nose.

They were disintegrating, had been for months, and he tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

It was a rare night - the first time in weeks - that they were both home early enough to sit down to dinner together. She made spaghetti; he stayed out of the kitchen because of his tendency (despite the delicate work he did in the lab) to burn pretty much everything, up to and including water. They sat across from each other at the table eating in separate cocoons of silence.

He watched her a moment as she picked at the salad; took a small bite of noodles. He cleared his throat, brows drawn together. "So I was thinking," he began hesitantly.

"Hm? What's that?" she asked, glancing up at him.

"Maybe we could turn the nursery into a library...? We've always wanted one; I think it would be a great tribute to...the baby." He always hesitated to say the baby's name. He was never sure how she would react.

She reeled back from the table, her face transforming. "What did you just say?" she demanded in a strangled gasp.

His face scrunched in surprise. He had expected some resistance to his idea, but this instant, violent transformation was disconcerting. "I just thought...um...I thought it's been six months, Jen. We can't leave the room like that forever; it's not fair to anyone."

"It's Henry's room, Spencer!" She rose from the table and paced to a window, arms crossed over her belly.

"I know that, sweetheart," he replied gently. He stood to move behind her, watching her warily as she watched...her own inner turmoil, perhaps. "But Henry's gone, Jen. He's not coming back. We have to try to move on." He winced, realizing it was the wrong thing to say.

"Move on?" she cried, whipping around to face him. "He was our _son_, Spencer. I don't think there's any _moving on_ from that."

"What do you suggest we do, Jen? Stay in this strange limbo forever? We can't do that."

"I can't..." She took several deep breaths, training to regain control. "I can't _not_ do it, Spencer. I can't forget the way it felt to have him inside me. I can't forget how it felt to wake up and know he was gone."

He sighed; ran both hands through his mane of curls. "I know. I can't imagine what that must have been like for you. But does it really help to stare at that crib every night?"

Her fury was such that she had to restrain herself from slapping him. Trembling with rage, she glared at him through flaming eyes. "You're tired of me staring at his crib? You're tired of this limbo? Fine. I am, too. I guess I can't do this anymore, either." She stormed out, headed for the bedroom in a whirlwind of hurt and ire.

He followed slowly, warily. Wondered what she had in mind. Wondered if the wounds he'd just inflicted could ever be healed.

* * *

_And now we're back to the events in Chapter 1. Since I created these two flashback chapters, I've gone back and dated some of the other sections, too, just so we all know when things are happening. :)_

_I'm imagining a sort of _Citizen Kane_-like drift between these two; you know, the famous scene at the breakfast table, where she starts out sitting on his lap, and by the end of scene they're at opposite ends of the huge table not even looking at one another. It's harder to put that in prose. Ah, Orson Welles, how I adore thee...you arrogant, innovating bastard, you!_

_Please review me if you're enjoying this story; I've stated several times that I'm a bit stuck on it, and reviews really help fire up Lady Muse.  
_


	6. Moving On?

**a/n**: Finally an update to poor, beleaguered "Still Right Here." Thanks for hangin' in there, loyal readers! I hope you feel that your patience has been rewarded. :)

Thank you all so much for your lovely, wonderful reviews for the last chapter! I feel like this story is the red-headed stepchild of my on-going works, and an infusion of love like that is just what it needs. :D

I'm still jumping around in time, but I doubt there will be any more flashbacks. Everything is labeled for your convenience.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Moving On?**

**Baby, here we stand again  
Where we've been so many times before,  
Even though you looked so sure  
As I was watched you walkin' out my door.  
But you always walk back in like you did today…**  
-Jackson Browne, "Here Come Those Tears Again"

**January 2010**

"Look, man, I let you mope through Christmas. I let you brood threw New Year's Eve. I even let you eat frozen potpie on Thanksgiving. But we're done with that. It's been four months. You gotta snap out of it."

Spencer Reid glared across the lunch table at Derek Morgan, fellow Columbia University professor and general pain in the ass. Morgan taught criminology courses, drawing on his background as NYPD and SWAT, and he generally used the same tactics in his relationships. Spencer was tired of having his gates stormed. He just wanted to be left alone. "I'm not ready, Morgan. I really loved her."

Derek's handsome face softened in compassion. "I know that, kid. She was one in a million. But you know, there are six million people in New York City alone. That means there are five other women in this city just as fantastic as she was."

"Four other," he corrected. "You've got Penelope; she's out of the running."

White teeth flashed in his dusky face. "Right you are, young Dr. Reid. My woman's one in _six_ million; you couldn't hope to find anyone who holds a candle to her. But I'm willing to offer my services to help you try."

He rolled his eyes. "I really don't need to be set up, Morgan."

"Yeah, Reid, you do. Look, Penelope works with this woman—"

"Penelope's in on this, too?" he demanded, aghast.

"Of course she is. She's done nothing but worry about you since…well, since the accident."

Spencer bowed his head, face scrunching. Would everything in his life now defined as either _before_ or _after_ the accident? Probably, he decided ruefully. Certain events left marks on everyone affected. He bore his scars; Jennifer bore hers; and their friends looked on in breathless concern.

"Her name's Austin Keller. She's cute and smart, and I really think she'd like you," Morgan was saying. He held out a Post-It with a number written on it. "Just give her a call, ok? Pen already told her all about you."

He sighed and took the slip of paper. "Great," he mumbled. "Thanks, Morgan." He pocketed it; hoped it would get put through the wash and he wouldn't have to make up an excuse for not calling cute, smart Austin Keller. Derek he could handle, but most days Penelope made him quake in his sneakers.

**.....**

"I'm just saying, J.J., it's been four months. Maybe you should just try to get back out there. You know, test the waters."

"I don't know, Em," she replied reluctantly. "I'm just not sure I'm ready." The two friends were having their weekly lunch, and Emily had just latched onto her favorite topic: J.J.'s love life; or, more specifically, her lack thereof.

"Honey, you're _more_ than ready. Listen, I know you hate being set up, but there's this guy Aaron works with—"

"Emily, no!" J.J. scolded her friend. "I'm not letting you and Aaron send me on some crazy blind date. My life isn't a game show!"

"No one's saying it is. Just hear me out, ok? His name is Will LaMontagne, and he just moved here from New Orleans. He's got this accent," she grinned impishly, "let's just say if I weren't a happily married woman…"

J.J. sighed, but Emily noticed the sparkle in her best friend's dark blue eyes. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

"Who the hell says _incorrigible_ anymore?" she demanded rhetorically. She waved a hand to dismiss it, then, "I know you loved Spencer, sweetheart. I know you miss him. But I think you'd really like Will, and he needs someone to introduce him to the city. Aaron and I have had him over for dinner a few times, so we're not talking about a random stranger here."

The blond stabbed a tomato with her fork. Chewed restlessly. "A cute accent, you say?" she asked at last.

"Oh yeah. It's _delicious_!" she replied with relish.

J.J. raised a brow. "Do you want me to _take_ him to dinner or _have_ him for dinner?"

Emily's expression was wicked as she said, "Both, I hope. You need it." She passed her friend the business card she'd confiscated for this very purpose. "Call him, sweetie. You won't regret it."

* * *

**March 2010**

The first signs of spring were falling across New York. The birds were out (not just the ubiquitous pigeons – _real_ birds) and the trees were beginning to bud. One last frost would probably claim the earliest, bravest crocuses, but the rest would survive and flourish. Spencer loved spring when he actually managed to poke his head out of his lab.

It was early evening, that time when the light hovers between day and night, the gloaming. He was on his way home to change before his date with cute, smart Austin Keller. He'd finally called her (Derek was relentless in his badgering, but it was a single call from Penelope that had tipped the scales), and they'd been right: he did like her. They'd only had a few dates due to busy schedules, but so far he'd enjoyed her company.

He unlocked his front door and stepped inside the darkened entryway, tossing his keys aside and unwinding his scarf. He held it a moment, staring, remembering when Jen had given it to him. She knew his love of scarves, and she'd fed the addiction with infusions of her good taste and penchant for high quality fabrics. This cashmere Burberry addition to his collection had instantly become one of his favorites. Sighing, he tossed the scarf over a peg and added his bag to the pile.

He was settling the brown messenger into place when he noticed something. A waft of perfume, perhaps. A different quality to the air. Or, maybe, just a familiar black Prada briefcase in its usual, but long-vacant, place in the foyer. He frowned. Ran hesitant fingers across its smooth surface as though to ensure himself of its reality. Called her name into the dim reaches of the apartment, a strange mixture of hope and dread filling his voice.

**.....**

"Jen?"

J.J. froze at the sound of his voice. He shouldn't be home yet. Normally he stayed at the lab until nine or ten. It was only six. She frowned; brushed her hair back; squared her shoulders. She'd just come by to get the last of her things; she was hardly trespassing. Of course she'd poked her head into the nursery…the nursery that remained unchanged since the day she'd walked out…and naturally the room, frozen in time, had captured her attention.

She hastily wiped away a tear and turned as the door opened. Offered him a wavering smile. "Spence," she said politely, "I just…I stopped by to…the rest of my stuff…" She was stammering, but the sight of him was unnerving. She hadn't planned for this.

He took in her disheveled appearance with one quick, assessing glance. "You've been crying, Jen." He reached toward her, to wipe her tears, but she flinched away. His hand hung suspended between them, a lifeline tossed into the sea, but she stepped away, refusing him.

"I'm just…surprised. You haven't changed anything."

He let his hand fall again. His face scrunched. "No, of course not. I…it felt like something we should do together. I wasn't going to just change it."

"Oh."

Her face clouded. His hands slid into his pockets. Silence reined.

"I've met someone," she said finally.

He clenched a hand, briefly, before his eyebrows rose in a semblance of nonchalance. "That's good, Jen. I'm glad. I've met someone, too."

Her eyes drifted toward him; read his body language.

"She's not you, though," he offered, lips twisting.

Now she reached out to him, her fingers brushing across his cheek like the kiss of a snowflake. He closed his eyes, savoring the brief touch, but it was over too quickly. "I'm sorry, Spence," she told him. "I never meant for this to happen."

He opened his eyes again. She was by the window, arms crossed, face twisted. "It wasn't your fault, Jen. We both…made mistakes…I wish I could've been what you needed."

"I didn't give you the chance to be," she admitted softly.

He opened his mouth to reply; closed it again. Decided it was better to remain silent.

"I kissed Dave," she said in a sudden rush.

His brow creased. "Is Dave…the someone you've met?"

"No," she said, shaking her head in impatience. She turned to him, eyes dark and imploring. "The day of the accident I kissed Dave. Or he kissed me. It doesn't matter. The point is there was a kiss, and I was upset and…I saw the truck, Spence. I don't know what happened."

He felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. "I don't understand," he gasped. "Were you planning to leave me even…before…?"

"Spence, no!" She ran tense fingers through her pale hair. "I never meant for it to happen. It was just one kiss. I always loved you."

His body folded into the rocker as though his strings had been cut. "I don't…I don't understand, Jen," he repeated. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I just needed you to know it wasn't your fault. Any of it." She knelt before him, but as she reached out she hesitated, unsure. "I never meant for his to happen," she whispered again.

He watched her through hurt-glazed eyes. "I think you should go," he told her in a voice gone dead. "Leave your new address; I'll send your things to you."

She rose slowly, her face hidden from view by a fall of hair. "That's a better idea," she agreed quietly. "I really am sorry, Spence."

She disappeared into the hallway, and a few moments later he heard the front door open and close. He sat where she had so many times and just rocked. "So am I, Jen," he murmured into the silent dark. "So am I."

* * *

_Eep! So very much sadness here. I needed J.J. to tell him what happened, and I didn't want him to just be all, "nah, is cool," so hence the barrage of angst._

_Reviews, kind readers, make my day. :)  
_


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